“You’re here,” I answer, before I can analyze how I feel too closely.
He takes me in, and something in his face eases. It should be wrong to see Luca Conti in a room like this, but he looks exactly right. I remind myself that he has four children, so this isn’t new for him at all.
Just me.
“I couldn’t come through the front,” he says with a small tilt of his mouth. “Side entrance. Service hall. Dr. Bianchi arranged it. She promised me absolute discretion.”
I huff a laugh that’s half nerves, half relief. “Of course.”
He moves closer but stops far enough that I don’t feel cornered. “I told you I’d be here,” he says, quieter. “Thank you for letting me.”
I swallow around the knot in my throat. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m one hormone swing away from setting the building on fire.”
“Good,” he says, deadpan. “We’ll blame it on the faulty wiring.”
My laugh comes out thinly. I should not be laughing at that. I’m a federal prosecutor, and he’s a fucking crime lord.
“This is so messed up,” I mumble.
“It is,” he agrees, not pretending otherwise. “And we’re in it. So we breathe.”
He holds his hand out, and I stare at it.
“I don’t know if I want to hold it or smack it away.”
“Start with neither,” he says softly, dropping it back to his side. “If you change your mind, I’ll be here.”
A little of the panic eases from my shoulders. I nod, small.
He gestures at the extra chair. “May I?”
I nod. He drags the chair closer and sits, forearms on his thighs, hands loose. His ankle monitor is quiet and, for a moment, so is the noise in my head.
“You look… strong,” he says, and I can tell he means it. “And beautiful,” he adds, like he can’t help himself.
I roll my eyes because it’s easier than crying. “The paper gown is really doing the heavy lifting.”
He smiles, and it reaches his eyes.
Another quiet knock pulls my back ramrod straight. He glances at me—ready?—and I manage one more nod.
“Come in,” I say.
The door opens on a woman in her forties with dark hair in a neat twist and a calm, lived-in smile. “Ms. Pennino,” she says, washing her hands as she enters. “I’m Dr. Bianchi.” Her gaze flicks once to Luca, then back to me. Probably part of the agreement. “May I?”
“Yes,” I say, surprised at how much relief that one syllable holds.
She dries her hands, moves with the calm of someone who has done this a thousand times, but mindful that it may be someone else’s first. “We’ll start with an ultrasound to confirm intrauterine pregnancy and dating,” she explains. “At this stage, an abdominal ultrasound can be unclear, so I recommend transvaginal. It’s more precise early on. Is that okay?”
My throat clicks. “Okay.”
“Good.” She pulls a privacy curtain a little more around the head of the bed, like a token shield. “Partner may stay if you wish,” she adds, the word neutral, leaving me room to correct it.
“He stays,” I say before I can overthink it. “Just… up here.”
Luca stands and moves closer to my head as I lie back.
“Of course.” She snaps a glove, covers the probe with a sheath and gel, narrating just enough. “You’ll feel pressure, not pain. If anything is uncomfortable, tell me and we’ll stop.”
